


Spitfire

by LilithsLullaby



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Not Canon Compliant, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rewrite, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Thanos who?, adding tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithsLullaby/pseuds/LilithsLullaby
Summary: When fire meets ice, steam will arise.Agent Embers is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s latest asset, possessing a unique control, or lack thereof, over fire. But can she melt the frozen heart of a frost giant?Remastered retelling of “The Embers of Desire”





	1. Straw Man

Sleep is a luxury. A paradise of unconscious delight enjoyed by those lucky few who possess a clear mind. But she is not one of them. Her mind is a constraint swirl of anguish and worry. A tempest ready to consume the remaining dregs of her sanity at any given moment. She will blink and it will all be gone, consumed by that roaring sound echoing inside her chest. The crackling pops of a virgin fire. 

Her hand brushes over the rough grain of a concrete wall, memorizing the bumps and groves that scratch against her skin. This has become her routine. Every night for the past month, when insomnia would rear its cruel, unforgiving head, she’d escape into the depths of Stark Tower, into these underground corridors. Tucked away from the wandering eye of the public, it’s residents were free to be themselves, whatever that may be. Human or otherwise. 

Like every other night, she stumbles into the dark training arena. The automatic lights flicker on as she moves forward into the empty space. She narrows her eyes, blinking into the blinding glow. She turns, seeing her reflection cast against the large pane of glass, a two way mirror for training observation. But there won’t be anyone watching her this late at night. Just her judgmental reflection. Disgruntled, brows folded forward, she frowns at the image of the young woman who stares back at her with equal distain. In the privacy of the night, she lets her eyes drift down over her form to examine her own figure. Dark pools permanently reside under her lashes, like companion bruises that refuse to heal. Her cheeks are speckled by dark freckles, scattered like stardust over her skin. Her limbs are lanky, frail, despite the constant strain she asserts on her muscles during these midnight reveries. Her sweatpants hang loose on her hips, forcing her to tie a tight knot into the strings meeting just below her belly button. She ties her hair back, the auburn strands having grown out longer in her neglect. Even her once tan skin has begun to pale thanks to malnutrition and lack of sunlight, her own punishment in the depths of these hidden caverns. She has become a night owl, a recluse. She isn’t one for human interaction. Not now. Not anymore. Not since they brought her here. It is better this way. No one could get hurt. 

With a sigh, she attempts to clear her mind, turning back around to stare forward into the blank and empty training room. The dusty sand beneath her feet crunches as she swipes her feet across the ground, readying her stance. Her arms hover midair in front of her body. Her gaze holds steady to a swinging object, a straw enemy that stares back at her with unseeing eyes painted atop its frayed surface. She focuses on her breathing. In and out. Expand and collapse. She narrows her mind to challenge that roaring heat within her soul to come out from the darkness. It is buried down so deep it may as well be nonexistent. But still, she searches, hoping to awaken just a glimmer of her true potential. She knows with cruel clarity that if she is not the one in control of it, she is merely its vessel. Flesh and bone covering the fire that rages within. But as her eyes unfocus and her vision blurs, a voice in the back of her mind tells her she is worthless, nothing, an empty carcass without meaning. Soon it takes on a tone she recognizes. _His_ voice.

_You are pathetic, you know that?_

She blinks and grinds her teeth, attempting to continue on. In and out. 

_Don't stand there crying like a child. Stop looking at me like this is my fault. It’s all because you never loved me enough. You never cared for me enough. You drove me to do this. You did this._

Her nails dig into the flesh of her palms. _Bastard_ , she thinks. _You were such a bastard_. She blinks and breathes in deeply, attempting to drive his voice from her mind. But the harder she tries to ignore it, the louder it becomes. 

_Let’s be honest, sweetheart, we stopped wanting each other a long time ago. We haven’t slept in the same bed for months. I mean, shit, look at us. Tell me you feel anything remotely close to desire toward me. Tell me. Lie to me._

A boiling heat simmers under her flesh, plummeting into the curl of her thin digits. Her nails form small crescents into the soft mounds of flesh. A spark of power courses through her veins, scorching the crimson elixir of life, replacing it with pure molten heat. Her arms are shaking now. 

“Shut up,” she mutters as if the phantom, residing only in her memory, could respond aloud. He’d laugh if he could. 

_Lie to me like you always do. Tell me you want me. Be my sweet little liar, baby girl._

“Shut up.” 

_Tell me how good I feel. How you won’t want anyone else but me. Tell me._

She thrusts her fist forward into the empty air, screaming until her voice goes hoarse. The sound bounces off the stone walls in waves, plummeting into her chest as if it meant to bury itself back into its point of origin. But still, nothing emerges from within her. Only sweat and frustration as her body temperature rises to an unnatural degree. Her shoulders slump forward and she brushes the sheen of perspiration off her brow with a grunt. She glares at the straw man as if he were a lifeless tormentor, taunting her with hallow eyes. 

If she were tired, perhaps she would have given up and gone back to bed. But she is far past exhaustion. She inhales deeply once again and attempts to focus on that burning heat that pools in the center of her chest. Her soul becoming tangible amongst the frail muscle and brittle bone beneath her skin. She presses a hand flat against her breastplate, feeling the pounding of her heart beneath her fingertips. But she also senses the roaring of the flames within, threatening to use her body as kindling wood. To transform her into a tower of blazing rage. As it once had. Burning away her humanity, leaving only the dregs of shallow regret in its wake. 

Steam rolls off her lips as she exhales and her eyes burn against the smoldering heat that now radiates off her body. She turns and stares once again at her empty reflection. Her own bright scenery stares back at her. _Alone_ , she thinks. But she cannot shake the feeling that additional eyes were gazing back at her, unseen beyond that dual glass. She often felt this way during her escape into isolation. Paranoia is, afterall, a symptom of lack of sleep, she told herself. Despite the gnawing sense of unease holding heavy upon her shoulders, she shakes her arms and turns back to her straw man. 

Images of her ruin still haunt her, creeping into her mind whenever her mental wards are fragile. Mostly in her dreams. Now, however, standing before her straw enemy, she lets herself remember. She can recall how cool the air had been that night before she entered the room. The sweet caress of winter she so often craved seeped in from a window, cracked slightly open in the living room. She smiled then, like a damned fool, unaware of the corruption that awaited her. And there, in the golden hay vortex, she swears she can see them again; the two faces of the man and woman melting away under the force of her infliction. Her cruel judgment in the form of an eternal flame. 

_You did this_ , they seem to say. _You did this. You did this. Monster._

She can almost smell it, the stench of scorched flesh, skin sliding off in chunks as her victims scream into the stillness of the night. The icy air had come alive with the work of her offspring. The flames danced over every flammable surface, melting the ice that coated the window sill, turning it to a stream. Her own waterfall cascading down into the remnants of their shared bedroom. Suffocating smoke plummeted through the apartment, coating everything in a thin layer of gray. But she breathed it in, uncaring, letting it fill her lungs to the brim. She had become the fire. Consuming. Destroying. Endless. 

_You did this_ , they scream again. _You killed us. Monster._

“No!”

She fumbles back onto the heels of her boots, assaulted by the force of power leaving her extended fingertips. She struggles to regain her balance as the small spark of her rage jolts forward, slicing through the still, stagnant air. It lands into the depths of the straw man’s chest. Soft dancing flames lick at the straw fibers as if minuscule amber horses consuming their feed. A tendril of hazy smoke seeps out from the man’s faux rib cage and cascades toward the ceiling like dark air exhaled from his nonexistent lungs. 

It hadn't been much but it had been something. It had been a victory. And finally, she breathes easier, letting all the tension in her chest dissipate, letting the heat roll off her limbs, away. Her lips slowly curl into a triumphant smile. Her pearly fangs gleam against the artificial light overhead as she watches her smoldering target slowly surrender to inanimate death. She could cry if her eyes weren’t so dry, as if all liquid had evaporated from her body. 

Behind her, there is a clap. And then another. A mockingly slow sort of applause. 

“Well done.”

She spins around on her heels to meet the voice behind her, her unwelcome audience. Upon hearing the sound, she is not entirely convinced it did not originate from her own mind, like all the others. But this voice is different. It is deeper, richer, with undertones she can not quite decipher. But when she meets his gaze, standing in the doorway to the arena, she knows it can’t possibly be anything good. 

Her jaw comes unhinged as she stares at the intruder. His rich evergreen eyes seem to dive underneath the fabric of her soul, to peel back each carefully crafted layer of defensive exterior, hardened by rejection and isolation. As he stares, he reaches up to smooth back his wild mane of raven hair. A sheen of rich purple catches the light of the distant flames behind her. She notices then that his hands are ordained with matching cuff links made of a sleek silver; a cool metal to match his steel gaze. The purpose of those cuffs is unclear upon first examination. Fashion, perhaps. Though, they seem rather garish compared to his attire; an odd combination of dark leather and woven gold embellishing. 

Her shoulders tense. She swallows hard, all words leaving her, as she realizes with deep regret who he is. What he is. But even as she attempts to speak, the overhead sprinkler system comes to life above, silencing her for good. Lost in the feeling, she stares up at the water as it cascades down over her body. It drenches her cotton shirt, causing it to cling to her body like a second skin. It’s cold, frigid compared to the the simmering warmth of her flesh. But it is a welcome chill. She sighs upon its impact almost automatically, her nipples hardening. They threaten to tear small holes into the sheer fabric of her shirt. She tilts her head back down, unmoving as she stares at the man in the doorway. His eyes have never left her, watching as the water seeps into her pale skin. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck, stray strands clinging to her cheeks. 

His thin lips curl up into a devilish smirk hinting at some malicious intention. 

Without a second thought, she bolts in the opposite direction out the second entrance just beyond her half-charred straw man. Her wet boots squeak loudly as she runs down the hall, rubbing against her feet and threatening to blister. But she does not dare to stop or look back. She prays he doesn’t follow her. And when finally, she makes it back up to her room and throws herself upon the bed, she is relieved to find she has left the stranger to the shadows of the training arena. 

But he isn’t a stranger. Not really. She’s seen his face before, plastered over every S.H.I.E.L.D. Intel Report for the past month. _Has it really been that long_ , she panders to herself. It feels as if it were only yesterday that Thor and his brother found themselves marooned on Earth. Wayward aliens. Gods. Along with the misplaced hoards that remained of the Asgardian race. Their home had been destroyed, leaving them as orphaned children standing in the doorway between hope and fear. Like lost lambs escaping the slaughter. Thor had reportedly turned his brother over to S.H.I.E.L.D. in exchange for their help, to establish a new home here on Earth for his people. 

And as she lie on her bed, amongst the crumpled sheets, she tries to imagine it: the Prince of Asgard handed over as a simple bargaining tool. Reduced to an object. Reduced to nothing. She stares up at the swirling fan above wondering briefly how he must feel. How, perhaps, she could almost relate to feeling so degraded. And in that moment, she recalls the way he studied her in the arena. She had been so vulnerable, bare. A wet kitten staring wide eyed at the embodiment of a judgmental God. And he’d seen her sorry excuse at a power demonstration. She felt so small in that moment. So weak. But she hadn’t seen resentment or mockery in his eyes as she might have expected. There had been an almost inviting glint to his pupils as he stared at her. Perhaps even something as unthinkable as the shimmering light of pride had played across the crinkled edges of his almond eyes. 

_What do you have to be proud of?_ She scoffs, huffing to herself. She curls up into a fetal position atop the bed and gazes forward at a ticking clock on her nightstand. 3:00 am. She wonders how long she could stay awake before sleep and the nightmares laid heavy upon her dreary eyes. Perhaps not as long as the night before. Perhaps not nearly that long ever again. 

* * *

He wasn’t unfamiliar with isolation. It had become his default condition. Quiet emptiness his constant company. The vast universe had once been spread out before him like a a bountiful harvest full of opportunities just waiting to be plucked. Conquerer, King. He could be something entirely new. But only to live another day. He’d let himself fall into oblivion more than once before, fighting simply to survive, to last long enough to see the next morning’s sunrise. He had once cherished the sight of the rising sun, peeking out from just behind the horizon. But that luxury had been stolen from him. Now morning came with the arrival of breakfast, a crude cold assortment of Midgardian gruel. No golden sunrays or the cool brisk air of early dawn. Just four gray walls that boxed him in like a cement cage. 

He lifted his wrist to gaze at his new gifts. Silver bracelets dug into each one of his thin wrists. A mortal construct but impressive nonetheless. He attempted to pulse his power out into the empty room, to mask his hand into the illusion of a massive claw meant to tear the eyes of his enemies from their sunken hallows. But the magic did not extend any further than his nail-beds. Empty and useless. _They’ve muzzled me_ , he realized and laughed to himself. But there was one thing he was thankful for. He wasn’t truly imprisoned. Not really. That’d given him free reign over the underground corridors. The spiraling maze of secret facilities splayed out before him. Of course a few were held under secure lock and key, access denied to a fugitive such as himself. However, he enjoyed his domain. King of the Underworld. It was better than four walls of endless containment after all.  

On one such evening, he decided to wander, feeling a bit too restless for slumber just yet. He’d grown tired of the books the mortals had provided and decided to see if he could find new entertainment. As he strolled through the halls, the sounds of distant groaning averted his attention. _A woman_ , he thought. But why was a mortal woman up at this hour? And why was she down here of all places?

He moved forward, propelled by the sounds of her animalistic snarls and grunts. As if this woman truly were a beast. He stopped, his eyes held to the shimmering surface of a thick pane of glass. Beyond it was the full view of a sort of battle ground, scattered with dangling opponents. But not a weapon to be seen. At the center, was the little beast who had called him there. A frail, breakable looking being. She was rather unappealing, he decided, even by more lenient of standards. Her clothing hung loose about her body as if she were a child attempting and failing to fit into her mother’s garments. She desperately needed a good meal, he thought as he pressed himself against the glass to study her. Some meat and mead would do her a world of good, fill out her shape. Perhaps then she wouldn’t look like she might snap in two if he were to kick her sheens. As he gazed unapologetically at her through the crystalline glass, she turned as if she sensed his watchful eye. On instinct, he held his hands up defensively, smiling as he concocted a delicious lie to ease her mind. However, she looked right through him, as if he weren’t there at all. As if she didn’t see him. He pressed his hand to the glass, peering closely into its construction. It was a two-way mirror. He could see her, but she could only see her reflection. _Amusing_. 

He stood there for an hour, watching as she punched empty fistfuls into the air in front of her. She would stop at odd intervals to close her eyes and inhale. A sorry excuse for meditation. Her gaze was held forward, locked onto a swaying object made of hay. She spit into the ground at one point, splattering the dirt with a spray of red. She had bit her lip too hard in her attempt at concentration. The smear of crimson marred her lips but she licked them clean. Her hair was worn lose around her face, covered any discerning features other than those macabre lips, dripping with blood. Eventually, she gave into defeat and sulked off out of the arena, disappearing into the night. She left him to the silence of his watch-post. He stood there for a moment, staring at the straw object she had been so intent upon earlier. _What was she attempting to do_ , he wondered. But without the freedom of his magic, he had no way to discern the truth from her mind. Once he returned to his chambers that evening, he stared up at the ceiling and thought of that small, little human, trying so hard to make something of herself. Trying so hard she made her lips bleed. He laughed. 

He returned the next night at of pure curiosity. She was already there, standing as she had been the night before with her knees slightly bent, her torso tight, her hair loose and covering her face. Again, she stood, grunted and cursed, until another hour or two passed without anything significant occurring. She eventually escaped into the shadows, just like before. For a week, he watched her like that, and for that week, he felt a gnawing pain creep into the empty pit of his stomach. At first, he had laughed at her failure of whatever little game she was playing. But as time went on, his sentiment morphed into one of annoyance.

He smacked his fist into the surface of the glass as he watched her walk toward the doorway to the arena, ready to give up for the evening.

“Come on, you mangey mutt!” He growled at her. Though she couldn’t hear him. “You weak pathetic, stupid little girl! Are you going to give up that easily?” 

She halted at the entryway. Slowly, she turned around to face the glass. As if she heard the din of his abuse from the other side.  

“Come on,” he snarled. “Try again. Try until you’re in pain. Use that pain. Use it!” He tried to will his words into her mind, even while he knew it was useless. And for a moment, as she hung in the doorway, he thought she would obey, that she would return to the arena and keep up her strange attempts toward progress. But after a few moments of staring forward into the empty space, she huffed and left the room completely. 

He slammed his fist into the glass again. “Pathetic.” 

He didn’t return the next night, or the following. A week or two went by before he even thought of her again. The remnants of annoyance still played on the tip of his tongue like a residual burn. From a cup of tea that had been too hot to drink. Despite his insistence to forget the twig-like mortal, he found himself muttering about the stupid girl when he was left alone.

He walked through thongs of agents during the day. The mortals would glare up at him as he passed, though he did not pay them any mind. They weren’t worth his time. It was as if he was subconsciously looking for her face amongst the crowd, but never finding her. As if she were a construct of his own mind, a ghost that lived only during the witching hour. 

Determined to prove his own sanity, he dragged his feet from his room. He decided that seeing if the mortal girl had managed to kill herself yet in frustration was a more entertaining prospect than staring at blank, lifeless walls for hours. 

When he came upon the arena and his little hideaway beyond the pane of glass, he smiled when he saw her. _There you are_ , you thought to himself. _Haven’t give up yet?_

She strode up to the mirror, mere inches from the other side. She must be looking at her reflection. Her eyes drifted down as she tied her loose waistband. She lifted her hands above her head and her shirt lifted. It was enough that he could see the sharp, jagged protrusion of her hip bones jolting out unnaturally at her sides. He winced at the sight. But his breath caught in his throat as he watched her, for the first time, lift her hair off her neck and away from her face. Finally, he saw her eyes. Like two burning embers, speckled with dusty crimson and swirls of amber waves. Unnatural. Cruel. But familiar, he thought. He cleared his throat, studying the sharp angles of her face, as boney as the rest of her body. Severe. Brutal. But not malformed or disfigured. Undernourished but normal. Utterly normal. 

She turned away and readied her stance to once again fail at this little game of concentration. _Not today_ , he thought to himself. _Today, I want to see something worth while. I want to know that I haven’t wasted my nights down here watching you stand like a brittle statue. Show me something._

“Shut up,” he heard her mutter. He backed away. Could she hear his thoughts? Did she hear him mocking her? He leaned against the glass but her gaze held steady, forward. Her shoulders trembled slightly, her knees supported by two wobbling twigs buried beneath her bellowing cotton pants. She squinted her eyes, hands held into tight fists in front of her, ready to punch the air. And she did, once, but to no notable avail. The attempt was accompanied by a loud, blood curdling scream that made his eyes widen. She truly was a beast. And while he readied himself to watch her give into defeat, she straightened her shoulders, wiped the sweat from her brow and stood still, stoic, ready to try again.  

_Come on_ , he thought. _Do it. Do it. Show me what you really are._

“No!”

A spark ignited in the straw opponent in front of her, having leaped from her frail fingertips. It had happened so fast it could have been a trick of the light. But as the straw slowly began to burn, smoke engulfing its stocky form in front of her, he knew what he had seen. She was a little fire-starter. A pyromaniac in the making. And as he watched her face alit in the euphoria of her eureka, he felt a strange sensation bubbling up inside of his chest. It erupted through his body until it covered his face in an unusual warmth. A heat that swept over his cool cheeks like a fever. His lips turned up with its movement, sweeping into a wide grin. She’d done it. The little spitfire had done it. But before he could stop himself, he was moving out of the safety of invisibility, out into the open arena. And he found himself clapping for her. For did a victory truly occur without an audience? 

She turned her gaze upon him and for the first time, she truly saw him. He smiled at her, ready to introduce himself, ready to learn more about this strange frail little mortal who had held his interest for so many nights. But as he moved to meet her, the room was doused in a faux rainstorm. Water fell over her, while he remained dry in the doorway. He watched her scrawny body become accentuated by the now wet material of her clothing.  He was surprised, and perhaps delighted, to find that while the rest of her body was meager and unimpressive, she was undeniably female. Two firm, round breasts perked at attention under the descent of the cascading water; soft curves he wished would grace the rest of her figure. And he smirked as his eyes held unapologetically to them, appreciating this small gift the Norns had provided. 

But before either of them could speak, she turned and ran from him. In embarrassment, he thought. Silly mortal women and their weak constructs of modesty. But he chuckled to himself as he watched her scurry away, knowing they’d meet again. _Goodnight_ _, my little spitfire. Goodnight._


	2. The Vampire’s Den

She slept through lunch. But it had been the most sleep she had gotten in a very long time. She feels oddly refreshed and renewed when she awakens. Instead of her usual nightmares, she’d been graced with dreamless slumber. She lies in bed for a moment, staring blankly up at the ceiling. It’s a strange wonder. Sleeping. 

After a shower, she stumbles out into the mess hall just a few doors down from her small apartment. Her hair is still damp, hanging over her shoulders and soaking through the material of her shirt. She goes in with the determination to at least drown her vocal stomach with caffeine and sugar, her only consistent form of sustenance. She pours a mug full of the midnight liquid and rips open two, three, four packets of sugar. She sighs after taking a long sip of the hot beverage and falls into a large cushioned chair by the window. Splayed out like a cat lounging in the shimmering sunlight, she stares down at the briefing report that had been slide under her door that morning. It is ten pages long, but she skims through the bolded details. She often avoided morning debriefings. But no one had complained about her perpetual absences. What could they do anyway? Punish her with forced isolation? She did that enough on her own.  

A crowd enters the break room, laughing loudly. She sinks lower, burying her head into the papers as if to become part of the leather material of the couch. She does not have enough patience for faux social pleasantries. Not when she is fighting her inner instincts to incinerate the intruders who have broken her blissful silence. She takes another sip of her coffee. 

“It’s so creepy,” one of them says as they walk further into the room. “He just lurks down there in the shadows. Like a damn vampire. Shit’s weird.”

“He sure looks like one. Wouldn’t be surprised if he drinks the blood of any wayward intern that stupidly wanders down there past midnight.”

Their laughter is piercing, sharp. It makes her wince. His image comes to mind then. The dark “almost” stranger. How he stood there in the shadows of the doorway, staring at her with a strange smile. A vampire. The thought makes her shiver, but she knows better. He is a cruel, hateful God. A God who knows her secret now. She swallows hard, her hands clutching tighter around the edges of the report. It crumples slightly.

“He can’t leave,” another one interrupts their reverie. _Crunch_. They bite into the tender flesh of an apple. And with a mouthful of the fruit, they continue, “They’ve trapped him down there. So unless one of you idiots wants to give him clearance to a higher level, he’ll stay there for the indefinite future.” 

“Maybe we should send that new kid down there,” a woman offers. “As our little guinea pig. He probably needs to be fed.”

“Ah, let him starve.”

She peers up cautiously over the back of the couch to look at them. There are two men and a woman, huddled over the kitchen countertop, all dressed in tight, black matching uniforms that accentuate their equally toned muscles. A uniform she owns but that would forever sit unworn in her closet. She recognizes them but not by name. One of the men catches her eye and glares. 

“What are you looking at, freckles?” He barks, taking another bite of the apple. “See something you like? Would you like a taste?” They laugh in unison. 

She grunts and turns back around, faking interest in the otherwise boring report. Something about the latest terrorist intel coming out of Russia. Not that they’d ever recruit her for a mission. Not that she cares. She tunes out the conversation of her fellow agents, letting it become nothing more than a humming din behind her. She lets her mind wander as her gaze lifts slowly to stare out the window. Spring has blossomed in New York. The park twenty floors below is scattered by the pointillist art of small floral buds. A part of her soul, the part that was still that of a young woman, carefree and boundless, desired for nothing more than to smell those flowers. To lie in the grass and let the warm sun bake her skin into a crisp, soft brown. Sun-kissed, like her freckled cheeks. But such thoughts were empty and void. She is tethered to this place, to this towering edifice. While her shackles are intangible, she is still very much a prisoner, though perhaps by her own devices. Her own actions had led her to this doom. 

She takes the report, now a makeshift ball of paper, and tosses it thoughtlessly over her shoulder into the bin on her way out of the room. She ignores the stares and comments of the agents as she passes by. She pushes her way through the crowds of busy workers, going about their day. But they are all going in the opposite direction. She becomes a salmon swimming upstream. They are going up. She is going down. Down, down, back into the dark abyss of the underground. She never ventured into the lower levels during the daytime, having limited those floors only for use during training. But this is more important than her shallow self-inflicted rules.  

It takes three separate elevators to make it down into the lower levels. Subzero. But unlike her nightly visits, the floor has come alive with activity. It seems like a whole new world. Bright and buzzing. Chatter fills the air, fading from casual to varying degrees of severity. She hears the word “Hydra” mentioned a few times. Perhaps she should have actually read that briefing more thoroughly. All degree of agents pace in and out of rooms around her, sliding identification cards and disappearing beyond her own security clearance. 

After walking for awhile, she pauses in front of a long, desolate corridor. There is a small plastic sign that indicates the space doubles as a bunker, meant for nuclear warfare and fallout. And as such, it is now deserted, unlike the rest of the floor. Empty and dead. But she knows he is there, hidden behind one of its many doors lining each side. Where else would he be if not in the holding cells five levels higher?

She moves forward, guided by a dim light that serves as her only beacon at the end of the hallway. The golden glow is streaming out from an open doorway. When she finally reaches it, she hesitates in the shadows cast by the metal door. There is faint music coming from inside. Classical, old. A suiting soundtrack for the den of a so-called vampire. She would laugh if she didn’t feel so petrified by an unreasonable fear creeping up over her lungs. It causes her breathing to become shallow and strained. She has no game plan, no means of how to approach this. Or more specifically, how to approach _him_. But she has to know what he plans to do with the incriminating information he has obtained in observing her. Surely a man of his reputation would use it to benefit himself. And ruin her in the process. She’d do anything to prevent that from happening. She tightens her hands into fists.

“I know you are standing out there, kitten,” he suddenly calls from within. His voice is strangely alluring, laced with a seductive vibrato. 

Her eyes widen, hesitating. But swallowing down her fear, she steps forward into the light. He is lounging on a small bed, legs crossed, one arm behind his head to support the strain of his neck. A book is open in his other hand, covering his face. When she doesn’t speak to greet him, he slowly lowers his reading material to look at her. Just as before, his emerald eyes light up with smoldering amusement. 

“Can I help you?” He seems to purr, a smirk crawling up over the corner of his mouth. 

“Last night,” she begins, but quickly loses her train of thought as she eyes the artwork on the cover of the book. A bare chested man with long windswept hair is clinging desperately to a scantily clad woman, who looks as if she is in the midst of an orgasm. “Is that a... romance novel?” She laughs. 

“I’ve read everything else,” He scuffs with a narrowed gaze. “But, you were saying. Last night.” 

“Yes, last night. You didn’t see anything,” she says finally, bluntly. Her arms hang useless at her sides and she suddenly feels as if she’s forgotten how to stand. “Do you understand?” She tries to sound assertive, though her voice waivers. 

He laughs and closes the book to sit up on the edge of the bed. He sets the book down beside him and leans forward against his knees.

“Maybe I don’t understand, kitten,” he replies. “Care to explain it to me? Slowly, if you’d be so kind.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snarls, grinding her teeth together. She can feel the heat simmering underneath her thin layer of skin. The only thing keeping the flames from erupting out from within her curdling blood and consuming him whole. One wrong move, one step toward enraging her, and he’d be up in smoke. 

“What? Kitten?” He stands, smiling devilishly as he approaches her. He hangs against the doorframe, his palm held just above her head. He has about a foot over her. She hadn’t realized how tall he’d been last night, lingering far away in the shadows. 

“I have a name, you know,” she barks. She steps back, her spine making contact with the cement wall. His eyes drift down her neck, momentarily widening at the sight of her damp hair, before settling on the curve of her thin waist. For a brief moment, she prepares to call him out on such obvious gawking. However, she quickly realizes he is simply eying her credentials badge hanging on her hip. 

“Embers,” he reads, holding the plastic card straight between his fingertips. “Agent Embers.”

“Prince Loki,” she replies with mild distain. 

He smiles at that, as if hearing his name leave her lips is equal to an admission of surrender. 

“Prince? Well, how kind of you to be so formal,“ he hums, studying her placid expression with that all too toothy grin. “It’s nice to see I don’t need to introduce myself.”

Her eyes move unapologetically up and down over the God of Mischief. And as if reading her thoughts, he interrupts her examination. “Were you expecting something else? Something more keen to the stories you’ve been told about me? Fangs, perhaps?”

“No,” she says, shifting underneath the weight of his gaze. But she quickly straightens her pasture and stares him square in the eye. “I wasn’t expecting anything other than a greasy weasel. So congrats, you’re everything I dreamed you’d be.”

For a moment, she prepares for his retaliation. She sees the familiar pulse of anger in the swirls of his deep irises. But it fades as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a fake, plastered grin. And he laughs lightly. 

“Well at least you dream of me,” he replies, pulling his other hand away from the wall, releasing her from the cage of his body. “Are you hungry? Shall we grab a light snack? I’m actually quite famished.”

“Excuse me?” She blinks, dumbfounded at the odd offer.

“You eat, don’t you?”

When she doesn’t respond, he takes her wrist in hand to loop his fingers around the slender limb with ease. His fingertips touch end to end. Again, her eyes catch sight of the glint of metal around his wrist. However, he won’t hold still long enough for her to get a good look at them. 

“Though, judging by your appearance, I would assume you’ve been living off air alone.”  

She gapes at him like a grounded fish before finally narrowing her gaze and yanking her hand free from his grasp. She turns the table, flips the script, and grabs his wrist instead. Her eyes widen. His skin is cold. And as she looks up to meet his eyes, she realizes his smirk is still held plastered over his lips as if he held the reigns. As if he still had control, just letting her have her fun. Annoyed, she allows her hand to slowly become hot enough to keep him still. To brand him if he were to move. It is the only defense she has remotely any control over. He hisses at her but remains resilient, as if her scorched caress has not truly harmed him at all. She stares down at where her fingers are wrapped around him, the cuff link brushing against her skin. It is nondescript and ordinarily. A bracelet. But on closer examination, she sees the unique logo for Stark Industries etched into the metal. The material feels as warm as her own touch, vibrating with a strange sort of energy. When had they developed this sort of technology, she wanders. And more importantly, when would they come to snap a similar collar around her neck? Her gaze drifts down to examine his flesh. She swears his skin has morphed in color beneath her hot touch. It has faded from a ghostly pale to something closer to the soft shade of early morning. A gentle blue. Her eyes widen but she isn’t given much of an opportunity to observe the change before his other hand is around her throat. He pushes her up against the wall. He holds her tight enough to constrict the air from reaching her lungs. 

“Don’t you dare pull a stunt like that on me again,” he growls through clenched teeth, eyes blaze. “Do you hear me?” His voice is a hiss laced with venom that sprays from his lips. She turns away, wincing and lets her hand fall away from his arm. She wills her face to remain a mask of unperturbed resolve even while his nails dig into her skin. 

“Is this all you have left? Basic brutality?” she dares to ask while his hand is still tight around her neck. 

His grip loosens slightly and he cocks his head to the side as he studies her with a narrowed gaze. 

“The cuffs,” she clarifies, though her voice is strained. “They are limiting your magic, aren’t they?”

He stares down at his own wrist where she had laid her hand upon him. It has returned to a neutral pale, but contains no burn, no red hue to indicate the influence of her heat. When he doesn’t answer, she asks, “Are you essentially human now?”

For a moment, he stares at her before suddenly throwing his head back in laughter. His hand falls away and she gasps a full gulp of air. 

“Even weakened as I am, I could kill you very easily, little kitten,” He says, though his voice lacks any serious undertone. “I’d advise that you don’t get on my bad side.”

“Don’t get on mine. Answer the damn question,” she snaps, rubbing her neck in irritation. 

His laughter ceases and his smile fades. “No, I am very much still a God,” he says in a low voice. “The cuffs simply limit my magic to only the bare necessities.” 

“Bare necessities? What does that...”

“You came here for a reason, did you not?” He interrupts sharply. “And I doubt it pertained to pestering me with these silly questions. Get on with it already.” 

She takes a deep breath, and finally answers him. “I need your silence,” she tells him. “No one can know what you saw last night.”

His sternness fades, replaced with a small smirk. She is quickly realizing this is his trademark expression. “And what will I get in exchange for my fidelity?” 

“My thanks,” she replies simply. 

“Oh, is that all? Well, that’s all I need,” he mocks. “Kitten, it’s going to take a lot more than a mortal’s simple thanks to keep the Silvertongue from speaking of your little temper tantrum.”

“Did you just give yourself a nickname?” Her eyebrows raise in amusement, laughter playing on the tip of her tongue. He snarls, annoyed, adding, “There’s something I want from you in exchange for my silence.”

“What could you possibly want from me?” Her brows fold forward.

He comes back toward her suddenly, hints of potential mischief playing over each of his sharp features. He tilts his head down toward her neck and she shoves hard against him gasping as his breath, unusually cold like his skin, makes close contact with her throat. His lips are mere centimeters away from her pulse point. Her heart stalls, but he doesn’t move. He simply smiles as he says, “Your blood, of course.”

She shoves harder until finally, she manages to push him stumbling away. He looks at her with pure, unadulterated accomplishment as he stares at her pale, flabbergasted expression. 

“You’re an ass,” she growls, spinning on her heals to leave the room and his cruel sense of humor behind her.

“You walk away from me and I’ll make sure Fury knows exactly what he is housing in this facility,” he snaps loudly. 

She lingers in the doorway but does not turn around. He asks after a moment of pregnant silence, “How do they not know?”

“One person does,” she says in a low reply. “And now you. But no one else. No one else needs to know.” She turns to look at him. “What is it you want? I’ve had enough of your games.”

He walks forward to meet her in the doorway before leaving her behind, starting down the hallway. “As I said, I’m famished.” He motions for her to follow him with the tilt of his head. Hesitatingly, she obeys, lingering a few paces behind him. 

“I didn’t realize you could be bribed with food,” she whispers, as if to herself. But he hears her and turns around slightly. 

“I can’t. And clearly, neither can you.”

They walk in silence, leaving the bunker behind them. As they re-emerge into the thick crowds beyond, agents stop, gasping as they notice Loki strutting forward. He smiles as if the attention is a pure indulgence. But the gawking eyes of the onlookers unnerve her. She rubs the back of the neck where she swears she can still feel his claws digging into her flesh.  

“How come you aren’t in a holding cell?” She dares to ask, to break through the sounds of whispers and the penetrating stares from every passerby. Life in the tower had become monotonous, and perhaps she does need a change of pace. But Loki of Asgard, the object of everyone’s stunned attention, was not entirely what she had in mind. 

“Can’t exactly imprison a man who turns himself in as a willing sacrifice,” he replies.  

He stops in front of the first set of elevators and points to the access point, where a card swipe is required for the doors to open. “Use your card,” he orders bluntly and waits with arms folded over his chest for her to comply obediently. 

“I’m sorry, when did I become your slave?” She snarls. 

He leans in, his lips brushing uncomfortably against the scoop of her ear. “Play nice, kitten,” he whispers softly. “I could ask a lot more of you. But I’m being quite generous. Be thankful of that.”

She inhales sharply. Her eyes widen. She clutches at the material covering her bosom as if he meant to tear it off her. His eyes fall to her hands and he rolls his eyes, backing away. “Relax,” He says with an exasperated sigh. “You’re not my type.”

“And what type is that?” She snaps, oddly offended. “A submissive little servant?”

“A woman with meat on her bones,” he corrects with a glare. He is clearly losing his patience. “Card. Now.”

“What is it you want, Loki?” She mutters, fighting the shiver that runs down her spine from his continued intrusion of her personal boundaries. He watches her as she fumbles for her card, lifting it to the lock. His face is devoid of the mockery she’d quickly grown accustomed to.

But he answers, “Freedom.”


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Embers agree to the terms of their agreement. 
> 
> \- Told from Loki's POV -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it been a month. Work has kept me very busy (in a good way!) But it’s really depleting my creative drive. My muse definitely took a nice long siesta (probably drank a bit too much too). And I am doing that thing that all writers do: I have about five different works I’m trying to juggle all at once (a few Trusting a God AUs, Trusting a God itself, another new story, and this one. YIKES!) So thank you all for sticking with me. I’m trying not to force these stories but simply writing when I feel inspired so the quality remains consistent :)

“I thought you were all about subjugation. The absence of freedom,” she muttered as they slid into the empty elevator. He chuckled softly in response. “Kitten, are you trying to proposition me?”

“You wish, asshole.”

He turned slightly to look at her, smirking triumphantly at the uncomfortable hue he had inflicted over her cheeks.

“I’ve read your file. On Stuttgart,” she grunted, refusing to meet his gaze. “How you claimed freedom was life’s greatest lie. Do you not still believe that?”

He hesitated to reply, staring forward as the doors slid shut, leaving them alone in the metal ascending box. Embers pressed a button for the third floor and shuffled back into the corner. As if she didn’t want to leave her back exposed to the Asgardian God. Not that he could blame her for the blatant lack of trust. She was wise to keep her distance.

“Is it that hard to believe that perhaps I’ve changed?” he asked in a low whisper, almost a growl. 

“Yes.”

He turned once more to look at her, studying her painted freckles, scattered along her sharp cheekbones. She was already frowning, but when their eyes met across that small cramped space, she returned his gaze with a playful smirk. He laughed. He took it as a sign that this girl would be worth the effort. That she may help to pass the time in this humdrum eternity. At least for a little while, before he tired of her. Like all the rest. 

“How long have you been employed here?” He asked, eying the color of the name badge dangling on her hip. The bright green indicated she was still quite green herself. But regardless, he decided to ask her bluntly, as this was an expected pleasantry. A standard conversational ploy mortals felt obligated towards when faced with stillness. As if they truly hated the rare peace silence could provide. 

“Two years,” she told him, dryly. _She’d only been here a year before I arrived._

“Siblings?” He asked, already becoming bored. His mind spiraled with potential avenues to explore, to provide some needed entertainment to this dull conversation. _But how far can I take this before I reach her threshold?_

“None,” she replied. “Just me.”

“Parents?”

“Dead.”

He turned to look at her but she was busy picking invisible dirt from between her fingernails. He slid toward the back to the elevator, pressing in against the cool metal beside her until they were shoulder to shoulder.

“Seems we have that in common.”

She tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were soft and serene as if lost in a memory. Her mouth slowly opened as she prepared to ask her own question of him. But he was not ready to let the pendulum of power swing into her grasp just yet.

“How did they die?”

She blinked and looked away once more. “Do you honestly even care?”

“I’m making conversation, kitten. You should try it.”

She exhaled deeply before speaking. “Dad died before I was born and mom...” She visibly swallowed. “I’ve always been on my own.”

“Do you not have a lover?”

Her expression hardened as quickly as it had softened for him only moments before. The dual faces of an iron coin. Hot and cold. “Let’s agree to keep all conversation about our personal affairs to an absolute minimum,” she snarled in annoyance, putting some distance between them as she shuffled to the side. “I could ask about the women you’ve bribed to come into your chambers. Or the men. But I won’t.”

He glared down at her. He knew his exploits would not be as discreet as he would have liked, not when he was always under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s watchful eye. But somehow, it still irked him in a way that nothing about his life was truly his. Everything belonged to someone else, as if he were a fleeting story to be told and quickly forgotten. With a low growl escaping from the depths of his throat, he turned back forward, resuming his watch of the glowing number overhead. He let silence fall between them as the number slowly rose; a silence far less peaceful than he would have liked. 

Once they’d traversed through two more elevators, avoiding as much human contact as possible, he finds himself sitting across from the strange frail creature. They proceeded to initiate a competition of cruel stares, cast dark with silent judgment. Their eyes locked in an unblinking battle. Loki leans back in his chair as he regards her. She is propped up like a reanimated skeleton, wearing a skin coat. Fragile. Breakable. And so very mortal. As if death hung around her shoulders, just waiting for the opportunity to pounce. But the fire he saw smoldering in her eyes gave him promise that there might be some fight left in her yet. He’d witnessed a spark of that potential and judging by her insistence for his silence, he knows there must be more to her power than he’s seen. 

A plate of whatever scraps he could find in the pantry is laid out on the small wooden table between them. Mostly a bowl full of what the mortals called a “trail mix”. He watches as she gingerly picks up some morsels of dried fruit and brings them up to her lips. _There you go_ , he thinks in encouragement, but quickly scrawls as she places the retrieved food back down again, uneaten. Her face twists as if in nausea. 

“You are going to have to eat at some point,” he says with a glare. He regards her with a mixed expression, half in amusement, half in blatant disapproval. Like a father scolding a disobedient child at the dinner table. His mind flutters briefly to Frigga and how adamant she’d been with the two boys about eating their vegetables when they were younger. When life had been simpler. When, perhaps, he knew what it meant to be happy. Ignorant. He narrows his gaze upon Embers, to refocus his attention toward the present. _Is this your ploy toward receiving death? Through slow starvation?_

After straining her mortal eyes to the point of tears, she blinks and turns away from him to stare out the window instead. He smiles in reaction to the subtle victory. Though, she doesn’t seem to notice, her gaze still set on the outside world. He follows her eye with a sigh. Midgard lacks the true opulence of Asgard’s former glory but there are some aspects to the Blue Planet that held a lure over his weak disposition. The sun rays beam down through a gentle cover of oak trees, where people stroll in leisure along the cobble paths. He’d forgotten how it felt to be so carefree; how the sun felt upon his skin. He closes his eyes, imagining, dreaming. As if he could be there, beyond this cage. 

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbles, breaking him from his reverie.  

He growls in annoyance. 

“And a man born blind does not realize he cannot see as the rest of the world can,” he replies in a stern tone of voice, turning back to look at her. “Now eat before I am forced to feed you.”

“I’m not a child.”

He blinks. Twice. “Then stop acting like one.”

And to his amazement, she complies by reaching across the table in an attempt to eat once again. Perhaps she truly is that disgusted by the thought of being hand fed by the God of Mischief that this alone proved to be a better option. She shoves a handful of the trail mix into her mouth all at once, chewing defiantly in a manner that is quite exaggerated. Cartoonish. When she finally swallows, her face twists in disgruntled dismay. Continuing the strange parent-child metaphor morphing between them, she sticks out her empty tongue for him to see she has followed his order obediently. He laughs lightly and reaches forward, plopping a single almond into his mouth. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, winking. It is enough to force her to look away. That same crimson hue of embarrassment builds back up over her pale sunken cheeks. 

“So, freedom,” she says after clearing her throat. An attempt to clear the air along with it. “What sort of freedom could you hope to gain from me? I don’t have the authority or the sway to have you released altogether. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I know release is not an option. I merely ask for a distraction,” he replies. “A reprieve from the lower levels. And you, my dear, are my ticket to ascension.”

“You want access to higher floors?” Baffled, her face contorts in confusion. “That’s all you want? Why haven’t you asked...”

Her voice trails to silence as she recalls their earlier agreement. But he chooses to answer her muted question regardless. “Merely physical,” he tells her. “Nothing bound them to me other than the mutual, if brief, pleasure we shared. I wouldn’t belittle myself by seeking favors in exchange for that. I’m not some common whore.”

“So, I’m your only hope?” _She’s mocking me._

“I need something else to occupy my time. Boredom breeds madness.”

Her eyebrows arch in intrigue. _Does it amuse her that my sexual exploits have been so dull and uneventful? She probably derives a strange sort of satisfaction knowing that I’ve suffered in some regard.._. But in amusing her, perhaps he could win enough of her favor to reach a compromise. As no alarms had sounded upon his arrival onto the third floor, Loki decides that movement within the Tower could hardly be considered a breach of his contract. A loophole even. If they truly wanted him confined, they would have put him into a cell, had him chained to the wall, and thrown away the key. No, their hands were tied. This is voluntary containment, after all. As long as he stays within this edifice of punishment, Thor and the remnants of Asgard would remain safe.

He finds himself distracted by the expansive window once again, determined to enjoy this small, if brief, reprieve from the darkness. 

“Doesn’t it bother you?” She asks suddenly. Her voice has softened somehow. He does not turn to look at her, continuing to stare down at the overgrowth below. 

“Does what bother me?”

She hesitates, as if another question plays on the tip of her tongue, daring her to speak it aloud. But she swallows it down and says instead, “The things they say about you.” She adds in a low whisper, “What they call you.”

“And what, pray-tell, are they calling me these days?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she answers. “A monster.”

He turns his head, but keeps his gaze low, over his shoulder. “I know what I am.” Irritated by her silence, he shifts his body forward, to stare at her straight on. “Question is... Do you?”

She doesn’t reply, instead reaches for the mug of murky black liquid before her. She takes a long sip, regarding him with a narrowed gaze over the rim. 

“How long have you known?” He asks.

“Known what?”

“That you are a monster too.”

Her grip tightens around the mug, her knuckles white. “I’m not...” she stutters, before her expression darkens. “I’m not like you...”

“Oh?” A solitary eyebrow arches. “What am I to you? A murder? The devil incarnate?”

“A fool.”

He laughs at that, reaching for another almond. “Tell me, kitten, how did you discover this gift of yours?”

“That’s not really any of your damn business,” she snarls suddenly, turning away.  He marvels at the brief return of flames dancing beneath her strange glowing irises, ready to set the world ablaze.

“I think it became my business when you created this bargain with me,” he replies, plopping the nut onto his extended tongue. He chews slowly and swallows. “When I traded my silence for these small luxuries. Such as this wonderful conversation we are having. So, tell me, what exactly am I keeping silent about?”

She leans forward onto the table. “If you have to ask, perhaps you aren’t as sharp as I took you for.”

“I thought I was a fool.”

Her eyes gleam with the hidden bubbling of laughter just beyond the subtle curve of her lips. 

“To be honest,” he starts with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not exactly interested in swearing my fidelity to you when this secret of yours isn’t something worth keeping.”

“What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m saying you’re weak,” he replies sharply, causing her to retreat back in her chair. “Pathetic, really. If you truly want to have a power worthy of some intimidation, you will need to train. And luckily for you, you’ve found yourself a willing teacher.”

“No,” she replies bluntly as she bolts from the table. “I’m not taking lessons from you.”

“Sit down,” he orders.  He gestures toward the now empty chair. “It’s not like you have a line of eager suitors ready to take my place. Face it, kitten, I’m all you’ve got.”

“Maybe I don’t care to learn anymore about it,” she grumbles, stalking toward the kitchen to ditch the now empty coffee mug. He follows after her, watching her every move. “Maybe I just want to know enough to control it, is all.”

“So you’d rather have the world walk all over you for the rest of your life?” He asks, just as she turns the sink on to silence him with the roar of water. He smacks his hand down over hers, gripped onto the handle. The force of his hand stops the subsequent stream. He leaves it there. “Wouldn’t you rather show them who you really are? Show them that you aren’t someone they should take so lightly?”

He feels the energy shift, like the pull of tidal water back into the sea. Having once been occupied by empty chaos, a mutual understanding now rests in the void between them. The heat that radiates from her being incapsulates around him as he stares into her amber eyes. A silent agreement passes through that warmth. Immediately, her stern gaze relaxes. The tip of her nose twitches, making her freckles dance. He smirks, pulling his hand away to gesture just above her lips. “Was that a yes?”

She shifts away uncomfortably. “I will meet with you,” she groans. “But only at night. And only in the training arena underground... where we met.” He smirks triumphantly but his smile quickly fades. “But If we are going to do this,” she continues, motioning her hand between them for emphasis. “We will need to establish some ground rules.”

“I promise I'll play nice, kitten.”

“For starters, I’ll need you to stop calling me that.”

“So demanding for a girl with so much to lose.” He chuckles lightly. “Would you prefer something else?”

“I’d prefer my name,” she snaps. 

“Embers.” He tests the waters, relishing each syllable, drawing them out for her enjoyment. But she seems rather alarmed by his response. A brief wave of illegible emotion passes over her pale expression. Something close to displeasure. But she shakes her head as if to rid herself of a fleeting thought. 

“I have some rules of my own,” he offers. “You’ll be required to eat full meals. At least twice daily. No excuses. We will be working to build your muscle. Your power is only as strong as your physical health and the way you are now, frankly, will hardly siphon enough power to light a match.”

She nods, but only slightly, as if she’s barely heard him. “Fine. Is that all?”

“Each time you progress, every time you show signs of improvement, you will take me one level higher.” 

“I’ll be dead before you make it halfway up this building,” she mutters.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He smirks, waiting for her rebuttal. But instead, she merely stands in front of the sink in silence. “Is that a yes? I’ll need you to be very clear with me. I won’t have any questionable consent between us.”

Finally, she turns to face him fully. She gives him that steel gaze, one that still strangely unnerves him. It’s because of the brilliance beneath them, the power he can faintly sense coiling around her veins, just begging to be released. His skin vibrates with anticipation, with a hunger dripping off his lips. He wants a taste of that power. He yearns to unleash it upon the world and wipe clean the slate his enemies had laid out before him. He wants to release it upon S.H.I.E.L.D. and those who would make him out to be the fool, as she had insinuated. No, she would be his weapon, he decides. His. Not theirs. But only if she agrees to this initial step toward her eventual death and rebirth. Toward her ascension into true, complete enlightenment. 

He opens his mouth, ready to coerce her with more empty promises. However, she extends her hand to him, to seal their contract on her own accord. Her eyes lock onto his as their hands connect in a firm shake. The sensation sends a pulse of electricity up his arms, to which he responds by grinding his teeth together. She is a force of nature. Just as he is. The heat of her skin becomes an odd comfort against the natural chill of his flesh. He feels reluctant to release her hand. So he doesn't, letting her decide when their contact would cease.

“When do we start?” She asks as a means of agreement, slowly pulling her hand away. He can sense her own hesitation in ending the physical connection. His lips curl at the corner, the release of his delight. 

“Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to know your thoughts on the beginning of their relationship here! Comments are always appreciated :)


	4. Simple Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Embers train together for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m stalking all of the pictures of Tom from Ace Con this weekend and I can’t handle what a cinnamon roll he is. But also, I might like him with the scruff? I’m conflicted. Anyway... enjoy the chapter! I’m having too much fun writing their banter. I hope that comes across in the chapter :)

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at her blank reflection. Her eyes are void of life, empty, like two bronze disks in need of polishing. She blinks and her glass copy responds. Unsettled, she lets her gaze drop to her feet before slowly retracing a path back up over her scrawny firm, inspecting every detail of her physique. To assure all scars have been properly concealed, tucked away like forgotten artifacts, hidden beneath the leather of her leggings. She doesn’t need him questioning her about them. That conversation could wait for another night, if at all. And as she stares into the eyes of her own reflection, she wonders how Loki, Prince of Asgard, had come to be the one to offer her training. It seems a cruel twist of fate that, in an attempt to deny her baser instincts, the God of Mischief had come to her aid. To wreck havoc over any remnant of her self-control. To awaken the beast within.  

_Is this truly a means of assistance or is this the path toward self-destruction?_

In preparation for the evening ahead, she carefully wraps thick cloth strips around her hands. The material is fire resistant, designed specifically with her power in mind. Her entire ensemble had been given as parting gift from a friend. Perhaps her only true friend, now separated from her by a vast and endless ocean. She dreams of that sea on the rare occasion of sleep, where she finds herself encased in its crashing waves. The vibrant sapphire depths rise up toward the sky in foamy crests. Gradually, their shapes would plateau, morphing in hue toward the rich tones of the bleeding savannah. Amber and gold, like her eyes. 

_Is he happy there? I hope... I pray..._

She secures the bandages with tight, bulbous knots just above her wrists. She flexes her fingers, testing their mobility within the thick binding of cloth. _It will suffice_ , she thinks. They would serve to prevent her knuckles from getting too bloody during combat training. But her skin has become so sheer, so fragile. A basic punch would easily rupture her flesh. 

_He called me “Doll” once. I suppose I’m as frail as porcelain now. It’s fitting, isn’t it?_

She checks the time and mutters a curse as she pulls her hair up into a high ponytail. They’d promised to meet during the witching hour, just as her previous routine had prescribed. Nothing’s changed, she tells herself. This will be just like before. Minus one key detail.

_Loki._ A much more formidable opponent than her Straw Man had previously been. 

She struggles with a sudden, consuming impulse to remain in her quarters. To let him seethe with anger, pacing back and forth for hours awaiting her arrival. But even as she delights in envisioning him that way, she knows that she should not tempt to insight the rage of a God. She will have to submit to these small sacrifices, if merely as a show of good faith. She needs his word, and if that requires humoring these minor requests, she will have to grin and bear it. Within reason, of course. 

Besides, they never agreed that she would actually need to improve during these sessions to seal their arrangement into finality. That was never a part of their trade off. Only that she would attend the nightly lessons with her Asgardian teacher. Which she would. For now.

She takes a deep breath and leaves her room behind, strutting toward the elevators with a renewed sense of purpose. The Tower is dissolute and eerily calm at this time of night, when most of the day workers have shuffled away, back to their homes on the other side of town. There are quite a few permanent residents who live in the building besides the half-prisoner Loki and herself, but she hardly ever sees them. They kept to themselves, just as she did. Perhaps Stark himself burns the midnight oil in his labs, as rumors so often depicted. But she would never dare to venture that high just to confirm the theory. And she wouldn’t tonight either. 

As the elevator slowly descends toward the lower levels, she wonders if this bargain is truly wise. Could she ever really trust the Liar God to keep her secret, even if she did as he asked? After all, he is famed for having quite the track record of betrayal. His brother knew that fact more than anyone. And as she enters the training arena a few minutes later, a plummeting sense of dread washes away all remnants of confidence once held tense between her shoulders. In front of her, awaits her opponent and teacher. He is dressed for the occasion, having changed out of the casual lounge-wear she’d seen him in previously. He stands before her in an ensemble that holds a brutal sort of elegance. Leather trousers, trimmed with green and gold embellishing, hug tight around his thighs, accentuating a muscle tone she never realized he possessed. His hair is sleeked back and held to the base of his neck with a small ribbon. And in his hands are two polished daggers, shimmering under the overhead fluorescents. 

Before she has the opportunity to greet him, he comes charging toward her, his daggers held at his sides. Wide-eyed and startled, she dodges the attack by throwing her body to the side. She just barely misses the impact as he swings his arm wide, aiming for the tender flesh of her throat. She ducks and rolls, falling down hard onto her knees with an uttered whine. The impact sends a jolt of pain up through her hips. Sliding a leg up in an attempt to stand, she glares up at him. Her heart is racing, sending tremors throughout the entirety of her body. Loki watches her, giving her momentary pause. 

“Well hello to you too...” she grunts as she finally manages to stand completely. A mental switch clicks into place, changing her demeanor into defensive mode. As she meets his gaze, his expression remains cold and cruel, responding by resuming their duel. He bolts toward her again, but this time, she rises her arms to halt the blow. A dagger manages to slide forward past her blockade. The blade scrapes her cheek, drawing a delicate trail of blood along its path of destruction. He pulls back, his eyes held to the crimson trickle that subsequently falls down onto her upper lip. She licks it clean. He stares quite unapologetically at her small pink tongue flickering out of her mouth to taste the warm droplet. With the blessing of distraction, she shoves her knee up through the apex of his thighs, hoping to wound his manhood. But he merely laughs at her in response. It is as if what she thought would have delivered a painful blow, had felt like no more than a gentle nudge. 

The sound of his mockery ripples off his chest. It cascades down his body in waves, shimmering his appearance into nonexistence until the space before her is void of an opponent. The sound of laughter shifts until it fills the air behind her. Spinning on her heels, she finds him standing in the doorway from which she entered. He is leaning against the metallic frame, arms crossed in front of his chest as he regards her with blatant humor. 

“As I said,” he laughs. “Pathetic.”

A burning rage ignites within her, hot and molten, scorching her veins along their path. 

“You cheated!” She screams as she wipes the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. It leaves a smear across her pale skin and virgin bandages. “I thought you said your power was limited. That’s not fair!”

“The world isn't fair,” he replies coolly, pushing off the wall to join her in the center of the room. “You can’t expect your enemies to play by the rules.”

“I don’t have any enemies,” she spits back as she pulls impatiently against the wrappings on her hands, mumbling insults under her breath. 

“Not yet, at least.” He smirks. “A little spitfire like you is bound to rub someone the wrong way eventually.”

“I’d say I’ve done a pretty good job of staying in your good graces so far,” she replies with a narrowed gaze, bridging the space between them by a few strides. “From what I’ve heard about you, I’d say that’s quite the feat. Otherwise, you would have done more than just give me this little cut here.” She taps on her bleeding cheek for emphasis. 

“You’ve known me for all of a day, pet.” The daggers re-materialize in his hands as he nears her, just a pace or two away. “You have plenty of time to get on my bad side.”

They begin their dance, circling, stalking, their eyes held in a permanent gaze upon the other. Like two predators sniffing out their equal in the midst of the wilderness. In the middle of a brutal winter. Hungry. Desperate. Wild. _Shall I friend you or shall I kill you?_

“Are you planning on making this arrangement long term?” She asks, her gaze held to his, refusing to break eye contact. 

“If you play your cards right.” He laughs lightly, a sound she never realized could be so pleasant, given the circumstances. It sends a shiver down her spine. Her eyes shift, refusing to surrender to the cruel allure of his emerald ores. They setting upon the shimmering daggers in his hands instead.

“Afraid to fight me without a weapon?”

His lips curl into a delicate smirk. “I am a weapon, my dear. And so are you.” The daggers fade away regardless. “But we are here to train, not talk, little one.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Silver Tongue,” she throws back, feeling a bit haughty from their banter. “Isn’t this all you’re good for? Filibustering with endless chatter?”

He laughs again, louder this time, before suddenly his body is pressed against hers. His hand delicately scoops up underneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him as he speaks. And in a smooth voice, low and seductive, he asks, “Would you like me to show you what else this tongue can do?” 

Her eyes widen in embarrassment, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. So much so that she’s sure he can hear it. Her mouth hangs open in disbelief while her shoulders relax beneath the smooth caress of his other hand gliding down her arm. All tensions ease off her body with his movement, momentarily forgetting any means of offense. For a moment, she forgets the woman she’s made herself to be. The loner. The outcast. The creature who did not need or desire human contact. In this moment, being touched so tenderly, she remembers what it is feels like to simply... be.

It is the worse decision she could possibly make. 

The trickster has twisted his way past her barricades, with his charm and his promises. He has exposed enough of her weakness to gain the upper hand. And with it, he propels himself forward, clutches his hand around her throat and pushes her up against the adjacent wall. She gasps one final gulp of air before he constricts his hand around her enough to rush the blood into her skull. His grip is tighter than before, when he previously held her like this. She stares down at him in both horror and disbelief. Perhaps a disbelief in her own weaknesses. 

“Is that really all it took?” He growls. His eyes dazzle with mischief. “I’ve taken down far weaker creatures with much more effort.”

She tries to speak, clawing at his hand for release but the attempt is useless. All she can manage is harsh gasps and wheezes. 

“Don’t let your guard down,” he hisses. His grip around her throat tightens still until she fears the severity of suffocation. “Not even for a second.”

She continues to struggle, squirming beneath his hold, straining. She tries to say his name, to beg for mercy. 

“I took you for more than such a simple girl,” he says, his voice laced with a rich disappointment. And when her body falls limp beneath his hold, he believes she’s given in to defeat. He loosens his grip. But it’s enough of a release to allow her to inhale sharply. The retrieved oxygen ignites a spark within her, giving life to the flame of her rage. Her eyes bolt open and pierce into him like two swirling embers ready to consume. Ready to destroy. Even her hair seems to come alive with the pulse of her elemental energy. Seething, sizzling. It radiates off her body in a wave of heat that would have scarred any normal man. Would have maimed and killed a lesser being. But Loki, a God in his own right, lets the illusion from his hand fall away, to allow his icy caress to counteract her assault. Black talons emerge to burrow into her flesh, attached to a hand now covered in blue, etched flesh. Steam rolls up her throat from the contact of fire and ice. From two dueling forces, held at either side of creation. 

As his touch threatens to break through the warmth of her skin, she reaches a hand up to cover his exposed claw. Her touch is surprisingly tender, as if it is a mockery of his earlier attempt at faux seduction. She strokes his fingers, delicately tracing paths over their strange groves. He watches her with wide eyes, unsure of how to react. But he isn’t given much opportunity before her hand is engulfed in flames, adding enough damage to cause him to retreat with an uttered curse. 

“Enough!” He screams, sending a burst of his own power into her. She omits a sound that is akin to a moan mutated into a scream as his power strikes through her heart. He drops the full weight of her body to the ground and backs away. He attempts to reposition the Aesir illusion back over his hand but the effort is far greater than he is used to. He strains, glaring down at the matching cufflinks securely bound around his wrists. But finally, after much concentration, he manages to mask his palm, now throbbing in pain within his tight grasp. A swirl of green light engulfs his hand, to heal, to mend, to conceal. But he refuses to let her see that she’s won. 

She lies beneath his feet, barrels of smoke rising up over her skin as her power recedes back into itself. As if she’d been dosed in water. She stares down at her hands laid out atop her lap, at the source of the pain she’s inflicted.

“I’m not some simple girl,” she mutters in a low whisper. As if she were speaking to herself. As if she were trying to sound convincing. 

He doesn’t respond, letting silence consume them both. He stares down at her, waiting until all trace of her power has been snuffed out. Until she appears as nothing more than a frail, mortal girl. 

“Anger,” he says finally. “It's what drives your power.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even move. 

“Has it always been that way?” His voice is remarkably gentle for a man who has just been burned. “Have you always been consumed by rage?”

She tilts her head up slowly. Her stare is black and hallow, as if even the fire in her eyes has been extinguished. 

“Yes,” she says no louder than a soft exhale. 

“Good.” 

He turns his back to her, ready to leave their training session behind him, to dub it effectively complete for the evening. “Keep it that way,” he adds. But as he senses her shifting, he turns around to find her attempting to stand on two wobbly knees. Like a newborn lamb learning how to walk, fresh from its mother’s womb. 

“We’re not done here,” she grunts. She is visibly drained, every limb shaking. Even as she holds her fists up in front of herself, it’s as if the weight of her arms is too much to bare. 

“Kitten, you’ve done enough for tonight,” he says with a sigh. “I’m going to bed and so should you.” 

“I said I’m not done...” She takes a step forward, wavering back and forth on the rounds of her heels. 

“And I say you are,” he growls in annoyance, turning back around.

But in response, she charges toward him, the last of her energy reserves falling into her feet. The minute she reaches him, she collapses, her eyes rolling into the back of her skull. He reacts swiftly, catches her in open arms before she can collide with the floor. He clutches onto her arms, staring down at her unconscious state. With a deep sigh, he pulls her up, to carry her out of the arena. She is as light as a feather, hardly weighing anything at all. He can feel her bones beneath the grip of his hand, hardly any muscle to her.  

_Pathetic._

He stares down at her, studying the freckles scattered across her cheeks and smiles to himself. _You're a determined little thing though, aren’t you?_  

* * *

She awakens in a daze, blinded by the soft, penetrating glow from up above. She blinks into the light. Fluorescents. A white room. Small. She shifts her weight up onto her hands. A cot. Her head spins, as if suffering through the remnants of a hangover. She fights the urge to lay back down, to succumb to the exhaustion weighing heavy upon her chest. Instead, she sits up fully and as she does, she realizes there is a blanket placed over her lap. Soft, warm, wool. She pulls it off as she swings her legs over the side of the small bed. She is still dressed in her combat gear, except for her boots which she notes have been removed and placed at the foot of the door. Her bare feet hit a familiar concrete.  

_This is Loki’s room._

Panic seizes over her as she attempts to stand, to run from the room. But she is depleted and empty. Her legs feel like hallow stumps, her arms loose at her sides. She falls back down against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling in admitted defeat. The force of her fall brings forth an aroma from the fabric of the pillow beneath her head. _His aroma_. She grunts as she inhales. Sweet evergreen and bitter licorice. She hates that it soothes her, that is eases her panic. She breathes in deeply again and rubs her fingers over the curve of her eyes and nose. _Why am I here?_

She shifts onto her side, her movement followed by a _crunch_. Reaching underneath her head, she finds a small slip of paper has been placed beside her, likely while she was still sleeping. She lifts the paper to the light to read its scribbled message.

_"You aren’t just a simple girl, spitfire."_

She stares at the note, blinking at it in empty thought. Her mind floods with the recall from last night, once suppressed within her dreams. She remembers drifting in and out of consciousness in his arms as he carried her back to his small cell-like room. She had stared up at him, unsure, clinging to the fabric on his arms, desperate not to fall. Or had she been pleading with him to release her? When he met her eye, she could have sworn he smiled slightly. “You did well,” he seemed to say. 

She shoves the note into her pocket.

Fearing his return, she finally musters the strength needed to stand. She pushes herself forward, clutching onto the wall with one hand to balance herself as she emerges from the room. The hallway before her is dark. _Perhaps it is still the middle of the night_ , she ponders. Though time seems irrelevant underground. She manages to make it to the elevator without encountering a single soul. Without seeing him. Thankful for isolation, she falls heavy against the back of the metal box as it begins to rise. She lifts her hand up, level with her face, studying the intricate lines set into her palm. Lines so delicate and faint one would have to stare so intently at a human hand to see them. But when she’d felt Loki’s hand...

She shudders, ridding the thought from her mind. None of it could have been real. She’d been blinded by the sudden onslaught of her power. She hadn’t been seeing clearly. Hadn’t been herself. It could very well have been one of Loki’s many tricks. 

_You aren’t just a simple girl._

She wraps her arms tight around her chest, shivering, but not from the cold. 

_And what are you, Loki? Who are you really?_

She slides into her room and falls heavy upon her bed, burying her face deep into her pillow, willing her thoughts to silence. But as she inhales deeply into the fabric, she realizes with sudden regret that it doesn’t smell the same. And she wishes it did.

* * *

After hours of undisturbed slumber, she reawakens to the sound of knocking at her door. She rises from the bed, stretching. It’s odd, feeling so rested and content. And as she walks toward the sound of the knocking, even her reflection seems to harbor a renewed alertness, despite her new scar. When she finally stumbles toward the door, she finds no visitor has accompanied the knocking on the other side. Her eyes drift to the floor, only to find a slip of parchment the same composition as its companion, still residing in her pant pocket. She unfolds it and stares down at its message with deep disdain. 

_"I do believe the fourth level is in order."_

She could practically hear the smirk laced within his written words. _The smug bastard_. She peers around the corners surrounding her room, attempting to locate its sender. Who had he managed to bribe to deliver this to her? Agitated, she crumples the paper in her fist and tosses it into the bin before falling back down against her bed. She regrets ever taking him to the kitchen on the third floor that first day. He should have had to work for those first few levels. But she gave them away like simple fodder. Now, he demanded compensation in exchange for last night’s progression. She’d be damned if she let him take all the credit. Though, it had been his commentary that had ignited an anger within her. Had given birth to the spark that set her mind ablaze. 

She retrieves the crumpled note from the bin and defiantly scribbles onto the back, “ _No, you smug, conceded bastard_.” She holds it out in front of herself, examining her work with a smirk. She wonders briefly if she should walk down to the lower levels and hand deliver the reply herself. Or if perhaps she can find a gullible intern, as she suspects he had, to act as her messenger. But as she weighs her options, to her horror, words begin to form on their own into the parchment beneath her penmanship. Ink bleeds into the paper by an invisible hand.

_"This conceded bastard is owed a level, kitten."_

She drops the parchment, letting it cascade to the floor. Embers stares at the phantom message in disbelief. Combat, Illusions, mastery of magic. What else was this God of Mischief capable of? She reaches down to retrieve the note, and with the pen once more writes, “ _Give meuntil tomorrow, smug bastard. I need my rest.”_

Again, a response appears. “ _You’ve slept for two days, Briar Rose.”_

_Two days?_ Her eyes widen upon the note. Had the exhibition of her power been that draining on her energy reserves? Or had she become that weak that even a mild display could leave her so depleted? She refuses to answer right away, lying back to stare at the ceiling. But when curiosity gets the better of her, she reaches once more for the note and finds he has already sent another reply. 

_"Take me to the fourth level and I’ll return your glass slipper, Cinderella."_

She stares at her bare feet hanging over the edge of the bed with a scowl, remembering her discarded boots left at the foot of his bed. _Damnit._ And with much trepidation, she begins the long walk toward Loki’s chamber to officially begin their exchange. To put her fate in the hands of the God of Lies. A decision she is sure will only lead to ruin.

But what other option did she have?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to who she is referring to as her only true friend?


End file.
